Avengers 1 and a Half
by Hermione Thranduilion
Summary: Twenty-two years after the events of the Avengers, they've all had kids and things are normal...well, until people discover where Loki's been all this time. Rated T for some torture scenes. I do not own this universe, sadly.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: *abandons earlier fic because it was a crappy idea anyway and this was much more fun* Okay, this is a multi-chaptered story I've been working on with several friends. We disregarded Thor: The Dark World because I haven't seen it (SHAME ON ME). I wrote Loki's POV. A friend of mine—ArwenisWholocked, go check her out, she's AWESOME—wrote Alex (daughter of the Winter Soldier) and Aron (son of Loki and Sigyn, who was Loki's wife in the comics). Peggy (daughter of Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff) was played by another friend, Abby, who isn't on here. Frera (daughter of Thor and Jane Foster) was written by yet another friend, The Elvish Butterfly (check her out as well). And…we don't have a title for it. I think that's it. Yeah. Please favorite, review, etc.**

**1**

Loki hurt. He hurt everywhere. Sometimes he hurt so badly he forgot he was hurting, which didn't make any sense when he was sane enough to think. But often, he wasn't sane enough to think.

When he was, he remembered things. Things he loved to remember and which were incredibly vivid, things he wished he remembered better, and, more often than not, things he wished he could forget. He would remember Laufey-he wished he could forget how Laufey had left him-and yet he somehow relished the memory of killing him-and knew he shouldn't relish the memory of killing his father-and did anyway. He would remember Sigyn, who might have been the only person in the nine realms capable of loving him. He remembered Thor, Thor who he hated with every fiber of his being, Thor the golden prince everyone loved, the hero, the one who was everything Loki had ever wanted to be. Thor he remembered with loathing. He would remember everything he had ever done, how he killed all those pitiful mortals, and how he had enjoyed it, and how he had known he shouldn't have enjoyed it and did anyway. And sometimes-and these came least often-he would remember Aron.

At these times, his mouth would twist into a wry smile-or as much of a smile as he was capable of making. It was a grimace, really, and nothing more than that. But it was something.

Aron had been little more than an infant when Loki had been captured by the Chitauri. Loki barely could remember him, in fact. But he had the faintest image in his head, and when he called this image to mind, the pain almost disappeared. Almost.

And when he remembered Aron, there was also hope. The faintest bit of hope that, someday, he would escape everything and find his son again.

But he knew that there was only the pain and the hurt and the monsters that lived with him.

* * *

Alexis caught the subway home from the firing range where she had practiced her shooting for the past hour, her arms sore and heavy. It had been a long day; she'd gone to the range straight after her last day of school to celebrate and had tested a new handgun model the range had just gotten.

Dropping into an empty seat as a stream of exhausted business workers, their once-crisp, pristine suits and pencil skirts wrinkled and rumpled as they trudged up the stairs to the surface, exited the train, Alex picked up a discarded copy of the day's newspaper and scanned the top headlines briefly. Nothing interesting was on the first page, but the second page had a report on Tony Stark formally apologizing for some fiasco in New York by one of his sons. Alex rolled her eyes. _**Typical,**_ she thought, riffling through the paper for the sports section. The apologies were nothing new; Stark's boys were almost always in some sort of trouble as they followed in their father's questionable footsteps. It was a different world for them; they were the sons of one of the most famous, richest men on the planet. As for her, she was a nobody, the daughter of a former killer with an almost impossible, completely unbelievable past and a deceased young woman who'd worked for most of her life as a cashier at a Seven Eleven in Washington, DC. She had no place in the Avengers' world, nor the world of the Avengers' children.

The train slowed to a halt a few minutes later and Alex got off, climbing up the stairs two at a time to greet the setting sun, only a block or so ahead of the Lincoln Memorial. Saluting to the huge monument as was her typical custom, she pulled her skateboard out of her backpack and took off down the sidewalk towards her apartment.

* * *

Aron stalked around his room, scowling and tossing a dagger up and down in the air as he walked. He hated being confined to one space, but he had no choice but to stay in his room unless he wanted a very ticked off Clint Barton coming after him.

He hadn't done much... not _**really**_, he defended himself. Just placed a couple of explosive chemicals in Uncle Steve's cereal that had blown Cheerios around the kitchen when Uncle Steve poured milk onto his breakfast. The result had been a wet, soggy mess of charred cereal all over the walls, a very startled (and very annoyed) Uncle Steve, and a huge mess for Aron to spend an hour or so cleaning up. He protested that no one had gotten hurt, so what was the big deal, for crying out loud, but that had only made everyone more upset ("You don't GET it, Aron"- yes, yes, I get it perfectly fine, you keep TELLING me) and had landed him in his room for "reckless behavior" or something, as Uncle Clint had said- although Aron was pretty sure his uncle had been trying very hard not to laugh at Uncle Steve's surprised expression when his cereal had been enveloped in a greenish-grey mushroom cloud of chemical smoke.

Throwing the dagger at the wall, where it stuck quivering next to a similar gash in the wall an inch or so away, Aron flopped down on his bed and waited for Uncle Clint to come and tell him he could come out. He was too old for this "time-out" type stuff; but he guessed he was only really in here because everyone was too busy with paperwork and SHIELD assignments to chew him out properly.

He shouldn't complain, he knew; the Avengers had done him a huge favor by taking him in like this, raising him for the past eight years and treating him like one of their own kids. He called them his aunts and uncles; they had insisted on it, even though only Thor and Jane were really related to him (and not even by blood, technically), saying that "Mr. and Mrs. Stark", "Mr. Banner", etc., was far too formal for their tastes. Although, before Aron had gotten used to (albeit outdated) Midgardian internet slang, Uncle Tony had almost convinced him that Aron was to address him as "sir, the amazing p0wner of all noobs" until Aunt Pepper came to his rescue. He couldn't help smiling at the memory, his mood lifting somewhat and leaving him with a slightly chagrined feeling. He was being childish; he was 16 (although technically he was 36 in Midgardian years) and bigger than pity parties. He made a mental note to apologize to Uncle Steve for pranking him.

A few minutes later, a soft knock sounded on his door. "Come in," he called in his distinctive Asgardian accent (which Aunt Jane insisted sounded a lot like a British accent).

The door opened, revealing Bruce Banner in the doorway. "Don't eat me," he said, smiling a little.

Aron rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Uncle Bruce; I overreacted," he assured him. "I'm sorry about all the yelling."

Bruce shrugged. "It's alright, but it's not me you need to apologize to. Listen, I came up here to tell you why we were upset about the chemicals. It wasn't so much the mess- although that _**was**_ a bit annoying- but rather the fact that you put Uncle Steve in danger. I know you like chemistry and all, but I don't think you knew as much as you thought you did about those chemicals. They're pretty dangerous; I was adding some compounds into them and I hadn't relabeled them. So they're a good bit more powerful than the chemical on the label. See what I'm saying?"

Aron nodded, embarrassed.

"Good," Bruce said. He turned to go, then looked back at his nephew-of-sorts. "Aron, we know you like pulling pranks and being funny, and that's fine. You just need to use common sense and make sure what you're doing won't hurt anyone, ok?"

Aron looked up and nodded again. "Yes, sir."

Bruce smiled. "Alright, then. You'd better get changed; Uncle Clint and Uncle Steve are leaving for SHIELD soon, so if you want a ride to the training area, you'd better get going soon."

Aron looked at his clock and winced; he would have to hurry in order to be on time for training. After five years, SHIELD had finally decided he wasn't a maniacal killer, or at least not psychotic enough to warrant prohibiting him from being trained in weapon combat and the like "for emergencies only".

* * *

Peggy shouldered her school bag as she left the library. Her bag should have been heavy from all the books she carried, but because of her father's strenuous work-out program, she didn't mind it. Peggy looked at her watch; she was already late. Breaking into a run, she dodged flying cars and crowded pedestrian filled streets. She kept her eyes on the tower up ahead. Reaching the doors, she flung them open and made her way into the lobby. On her way up she noticed a newspaper holding yet another Stark apology; she knew she was going to have to ask Clarisse about that later. She reached her apartment on the twentieth floor and, opening the door, she saw her dad in the kitchen eating a sandwich.

"Hey Dad. Mom home yet?"

"Nope, she's still on her mission."

Peggy sighed and, taking out a book, slumped onto the couch.

* * *

Frera ran out the door into the hot, bustling air of New York City in June, her heart soaring and leaping every time her feet hit the concrete, beating a rhythm: _School is over! Over! Over! _Not that she hadn't liked it. She'd loved every minute of learning. But the way kids stared at her...

She slowed to a walk as she rounded a corner, heading towards Stark Towers. Most of the kids in her class had gotten used to her, the half-Asgardian weirdo. But there was always the new kid who'd come along and gawk at her like she was some kind of extraterrestrial..._and speaking of gawking..._

She groaned inwardly as a reporter rounded the corner ahead of her, looked around, and headed straight for her. Most were leaving her alone by now, but this one was obviously new. She arranged her face into a forced smile and tried to walk faster, to no avail. The reporter was making a beeline straight for her, his face alight with the eager, media-hungry look she had come to disdain.

"Hello, hello!" he panted. "You must be Miss...Frera?" He took out a notepad.

"Excuse me, I'm trying to get home from school," she said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I understand that you have things to attend to," he said, glancing at her as though expecting her to display mind-staggering powers any second now. "I only wanted to ask you a _few_ questions."

"How exciting," she said flatly. She opened her mouth, then had a new, truly exciting thought: _This might be a good time to test it! _"Of course...sir." She leaned against a nearby dumpster, looking resigned.

"Excellent!" gushed the reporter. "I-" He stopped and stared at Frera. Except there _was_ no Frera. She had disappeared into thin air.

Frera only glanced once around the corner. _It had worked! _The reporter was poking at the garbage around the dumpster and muttering to himself. With a satisfied smirk, Frera broke into a run, reached the glass doors of the enormous Tower, and dashed inside, but she had only taken a couple steps before she bumped into someone, hard.

"-Aron?"

Aron jumped backwards. "Heads up!" he exclaimed, then blinked. "Oh, it's you, Frera. What's the rush?"

"Oh," she said, catching her breath. "Nothing much. Just getting rid of a reporter." She looked at him more closely, scrutinizing the bits of smoke still left in his hair. "Is something wrong?"

Aron realised what she was looking at and blushed, rapidly running a hand through his curls and dislodging bits of chemical powder and Cheerio dust. "Ummm, no, not really... just up to my usual. I'm off for training; I'll be back in an hour or so. I'm probably just going to hit the range; it's a bit late for anything else..." He grinned mischievously at her. "Did you do your... thing? On the reporter?"

She grinned back. "That I did. I do hope he won't report me, though. And I hope you have a great time! I gotta go do some stuff." She paused a bit before continuing down the hall, her shoes squeaking on the shiny floor. _I wonder what he did again..._ she thought, a bit concerned, but she brushed the thought away as she got into an elevator, making sure to avoid any staff.

She would have come with him to the range, but as it was the end of school she wanted to do something she had not done for a while: read. And she had just gotten a new book on Norse mythology. True, she had Asgardian books, but only a few, so she had gleaned most of her knowledge from "normal" textbooks, with a grain of salt: the exaggerations were sometimes fantastical.

When she reached the 9th floor, she stepped outside onto the carpeted hall, glanced around, and headed straight for the third door on the right. Once inside, she dropped her book on her desk and reveled for one moment in the sunlight streaming through her many windows. Her room was her protection from the outside world, and the huge windows staring right onto one of the world's busiest cities never failed to attract her. The rest of the room was plain: light green and airy.

She reached for her book, but then hesitated. First, an experiment: the floating specks of dust had given her an idea. She concentrated for a moment, staring right at the spot in front of her in the dancing air. Nothing happened-but then, with a bluish glow, a soap bubble appeared, hovering in the air. _Perfect_. She let it float there for a moment, then turned back to her book and heaved it onto her bed. Eagerly, she opened it and scanned the pages, but then disappointment sank in. This was just another one of those good-for-nothing mythological books that restated nothing except the usual hash of Norse mythology from the (severely limited) Midgardian "expert" perspective. Sighing, she turned to the index and a list of the Norse gods, which she already knew all about.

_Odin...Freyr...Frigg...Heimdallr...Thor - He's my father, for goodness' sake! -...Loki..._

She snapped the book shut and just lay there, thinking. _I should have gone with Aron,_ she thought._ More use than just sitting around here! I hope he doesn't get into trouble; he always seems to be doing that. _Out of boredom, her mind skipped back to the index.

_I wonder where they all are now...Father is probably coming back soon from some business or something..._ Her mind skipped farther back and farther back into her family: mother, grandfather, grandmother (now long dead)...which left..._I wonder what happened to him. Or what is happening. Father never told me much-Wikipedia told me more! _She thought hard. She liked to think. She tried to imagine herself being one of those names on that fading page.

_Blackness. Blackness and more blackness. Ruin. Revenge...yes, that would be it..._

Above her, the soap bubble popped.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Alex got back to her apartment just as the sun dropped below the DC skyline, the streetlamps flickering on with a soft buzz and instantly attracting the fluttering wings of moths and gnats. She unlocked the front door and headed up the creaking, uneven stairs to her apartment. It was dark in the hallways, making the place seem older than usual. It had been built in the early 2000s and had none of the posh new technology that the Stark kids were probably used to (_**Why am I still thinking about them?**_). Unlocking her apartment door, she was greeted by silence. Frowning, she dropped her backpack outside her bedroom door, leaning her skateboard against the wall.

"Dad?" she called, her voice loud in the silent apartment. A moment later, she heard someone breathing heavily from a different room, and was reminded for the millionth time of the effects of the serum passed on to her by her father.

She found him in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white, his breathing ragged and gasping, grey shirt sticking to his back as a patch of damp sweat spread across it slowly. Alex's eyes widened and she hurried over to him. She'd seen him like this before, once by mistake when she was younger. He had sent her away quickly, his hands shaking as he told her to go find something to do, Daddy's not feeling well, I'll be out in a minute, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. She had been scared, but she obeyed and skittered out of his room, shutting the door behind her and trying not to cry when she heard him yell in anger and smash something against the wall.

Now, she rubbed his back gently, unsure what to do. He had told her what was happening to him- memories, sometimes horrible, even worse than the nightmares that plagued him in the night, waking Alex to her father's tormented screams to lie in the dark feeling utterly helpless and heartbroken for her father.

After a while, he released a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said softly, giving her a smile that couldn't get rid of the haunted look in his eyes. He stood and let go of the counter, bits of it crumbling onto the floor from where he had gripped it too hard with his metal hand. "I'm sorry... You shouldn't have had to see that."

She kissed him gently on the cheek. "It's ok. I'd rather see it and help than not see it and leave you on your own." She opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents. "Now... about dinner..."

They both stared into the fridge for a while- a couple of eggs, a milk jug, a container of old meatloaf, and a few other leftovers. Their eyes met, and Alex grinned.

"Pizza?" he suggested.

"Pizza," Alex laughed.

* * *

Loki concentrated hard on that one blemish on the wall, the little spot he'd discovered years ago (it could have been years, months, days, he didn't know), as the pain increased. This particular torturer he had seen before. He came often, in fact. Loki knew his name; it was floating somewhere in his mind.

There. He had it.

"Hello, Crad," he said, rolling the 'r' slightly and trying to hide the pain in his words. He wasn't called Silvertongue for nothing. He considered it hidden fairly well, at least. He didn't expect a response from the Chitauri. None came. Loki was pleased that his voice hadn't cracked; he was very thirsty.

Loki expected Crad to do what he always did: break a few bones, perhaps tear off his fingernails, use a knife to shave off a layer of skin. This was almost routine now.

Crad did what was expected. He had always been predictable.

Loki felt the Chitauri twisting his left arm. A pity, his left arm was the one that had just healed. It would heal again, in time. But such an inconvenience. He gritted his teeth and waited for the inevitable snap. Loki bit the inside of his lip, making sure that Crad could not see he was in pain. He started counting. How long would it take for the bone to break? He always did it slowly, ever so slowly, so that Loki was in pain for the greatest amount of time possible. _One, two, three_-he could feel it giving way-_four, five, six, seven, eight, nine_-it broke. Loki didn't scream. He never screamed. He never made any noise at all, because pain was weakness, and showing pain was cowardice. Loki hated being thought weak and a coward. And so he made no sound.

It hurt. Very much. But Loki was always hurting.

Loki let his eyes wander from the little spot on the wall to Crad's face. It was devoid of emotion, as always. Loki grinned at his torturer. He liked to do this, liked to confuse people and trick them. It was what he had been best at since childhood.

For a moment Loki did not realize that Crad was not continuing. It was only when he registered Crad's footsteps traveling away from him that he realized that the pain had stopped. Well, some of it had stopped. There was the part that was always there, that never went away. But he was a little bit more comfortable. He took a step toward the Chitauri, about to ask why, and remembered he was chained too late.

Loki clenched his fists as fresh waves of pain rolled through him, as they always did when he strained against his bonds. He tried to find something to focus on, but he was blinded by the pain and he could not find the little spot and everything kept going white and why wouldn't the pain just _stop_ and everything was darkening and the pain wouldn't stop and it was worse, much worse than usual, much worse than anything they had ever done to him, and why couldn't it stop hurting and he wanted it to stop and he could hear somebody screaming and he wondered why they wouldn't stop and let him sink into this lovely grayish haze, and then he realized that it was him screaming, and now they _knew_ he was weak and everything was going black and please, please make it stop, stop hurting, please stop _hurting—_

* * *

Aron felt something pull in his arm, a gentle, momentary throb that made him frown imperceptibly, but was not unfamiliar. It was strange; he had felt the various twinges and aches throughout his life and had always wondered what they were. Sometimes, he would wake up sore all over for no reason, but most times it was just a small ache that would go away in a day or two.

* * *

"Well, dear, I think I'm headed to the training area. Do you want to come?"

Peggy grimaced at the usage of her name before putting down her book. "Do I have to?"

"Did you do your exercises?" Steve answered her with a question.

"No."

"I guess that answers your question."

After getting changed into training clothes, Peggy walked out. Her dad just stared at her for a second before slinging his arm around her shoulder and kissing her forehead.

"You look like your mom," he said

Peggy rolled her eyes. "It's Mom's old suit."

"That's what I figured," he said, smiling.

Peggy followed her father out of the apartment and down the stairs. She saw Aron and Frera standing in the lobby. She bounded over to them. Despite being almost two years older, Peggy tried to get along with everyone.

"Hey, guys! Can you believe it's summer?"

Aron grinned at Peggy. "I know... FREEDOM, finally..."

Clint elbowed him playfully as he headed for the car. "That is, if you're not grounded to your room for..." He raised his eyebrows and fake coughed. "...Certain incidents..."

Aron mock glared at Clint, then rolled his eyes at Peggy. "Don't ask. I'd better get going; are you two coming or what?"

"I'm definitely coming. My dad is kind of making me. Apparently, training can't stop for a single day. Oh, and I saw food remnants and a weird smell, so I know you probably pulled something else. My father wouldn't tell me, but I notice these things."

Peggy linked her arm through Aron's. Because she'd grown up with them, most of the kids in the building were like her siblings. Hawkeye's son was really cute, though. "Let's go."

Aron blushed slightly at his "cousin". "Right, then," he smiled and escorted her to the car, opening the door and pretending to boot her into it. "In, kid. I call shotgun!"

"Too bad; Uncle Steve's sitting there," Uncle Clint said, smirking.

Aron made a face and sat in the back. "Oh, now I'm stuck with _**you**_," he groaned, winking at Peggy.

Peggy laughed and stuck out her tongue. "You can't call me kid. You might be older in human years but developmentally I'm older." She shifted around in her seat, but had a hard time doing it. "Dad, did you wash my suit in warm water again? I think it shrunk some more. Mom won't be happy if you did. Oh, and, Uncle Clint, when is Jason coming home?"

Aron rolled his eyes. "Barely," he protested, but he knew it was hopeless.

"He flies in day after tomorrow; I'm supposed to collect him from the airport at 3. You want to come?" Clint asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

Aron jabbed her subtly, staring out of the window at the passing cars with an innocent look, betrayed only by the slightest hint of a smirk twitching at the corners of his lips.

Peggy rolled her eyes at Aron and sent him a glare. "Sure, I'll come."

Peggy's father turned around and raised his eyebrows. Turning towards the window, she made it clear that she didn't want to talk about Jason anymore.

Aron grinned briefly, rubbing his arm absently. His thoughts began to wander, and he found himself thinking about his father... _**Loki,**_ he thought. He'd never met his father, and Thor had never really explained why...

Aron had been raised for the first part of his life on Asgard under the watchful eye of the court nurses and caretakers; if he ever asked about his parents, the nurses would look uneasy and try to distract him with something else. His mother would visit him on occasion, usually at least once or twice a year. Aron smiled a little at the thought of Sigyn, tall and beautiful, her smile radiant as she would hug him tightly and sigh at how tall he'd gotten since she last saw him. They would always do something special when she visited- sometimes visit Vanaheim, or go to the beach and play in the waves, or whatever Aron felt like doing. But she could never stay long before her duties on Vanaheim called her away.

Aron understood, at least a little, that even he, her son, came second to her duties on Vanaheim—after all, she was very high up in the system of rule, and having a son to care for at all times would interfere with her work and put Aron in a very dangerous situation, as assassination attempts and threats from the public or other realms and regions were frequent issues in Sigyn's field.

But one thing Aron treasured more than anything else in his mother's visits: she would tell him stories about his father. She would tell him of the great battles he had fought in with Aron's uncle, Thor, the hilarious jokes and pranks Loki would pull on members of the court, the happy times he shared with Sigyn... everything. A faraway look would always come into her eyes, a longing for the past, the pain of missing Loki for over twenty years (even longer on Vanaheim with the realm's accelerated time passage, Aron remembered), and the fear of never knowing where he was.

Aron sighed silently and suddenly realized that the window was beginning to frost over underneath his fingertips. Quickly wiping it away with his sleeve, he tried to think of something else... like disassembling a sniper rifle. He ran through the motions a few times until the car stopped outside the New York SHIELD headquarters.

"Here we are," Uncle Clint said, pulling the keys out of the ignition and climbing out. Shaking his head and banishing his tangled thoughts of Loki and family and _frost_, Aron slid out and held the car door open for Peggy.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Loki didn't want to open his eyes. He realized that he hadn't slept in years, probably. There was too much pain for him to sleep, usually. He vaguely remembered being told that he would long for something as sweet as pain, before, but he couldn't understand quite what that meant. Pain was definitely not sweet, as far as he knew.

Sweet. He remembered sweetness. It seemed to be from long ago, but he remembered sweetness. Honey. He thought he liked honey, when he was a child. He hadn't had honey in perhaps a hundred years or so. Sleep was sweet, right now. Loki _really_ didn't want to open his eyes.

And then, all of a sudden, he remembered why he was sleeping. The pain had made him sleep; there was so much of it. And then he remembered that he had screamed. He, Loki, had screamed because of the pain. He had never screamed before, not in front of the Chitauri at least.

He forced his eyes open and made himself sit up against the wall he was chained to. He hurt as soon as he moved, but he gritted his teeth against the pain, as he always did, and sat, leaning against the wall. He frowned. He shouldn't have to lean against the wall. He was Loki. He was strong. Loki bit the inside of his cheek and stood.

Well, now he was awake, and he was standing, and he wasn't hurting so much that he couldn't think, and so he thought. Why had Crad stopped after breaking his arm? Why did it hurt so, so much when he pulled at his chains? It had hurt before, but never so much as it had now.

Loki had a few things left. His lies-he had always had those-his memories, and his desperate hope of escape. Because of this desperate hope, anything abnormal made him curious, and he saw it as a possible way out.

An idea. He had had ideas for escape plans before, but none of them had worked. Obviously. But when he had ideas, he always used them, because what else did he have?

A slow, deliberate, deliciously mischievous, wicked smile spread across Loki's face as he planned.

* * *

Alex lay sprawled on the couch watching Star Wars, curled up in a blanket with a bowl of caramel popcorn and a cup of hot chocolate. Her dad lounged in a battered recliner next to her, dozing off as they watched the Ewoks hurl rocks at the unsuspecting stormtroopers.

In truth, Alex was barely paying attention to the movie, but was watching her father's expression as he fell asleep.

Occasionally, his fists would clench briefly and his eyes would snap open, his nostrils flaring as he breathed quickly through his nose in an attempt to avoid attracting Alex's attention.

After the third time or so, Alex paused the movie. "Dad, you should get some sleep," she suggested.

He shook his head. "It's fine. I want to spend time with you," he said.

Alex knew that quality time wasn't the only reason he was fighting sleep. Sleep brought pain and nightmares, memories confused with reality, demons of the past clawing at his heart and mind, slowly breaking him down until he shivered under the covers, sobbing silently and longing for morning...

She knew, even if he didn't want her to. She thought fleetingly, guiltily, of the day she'd snuck into his room looking for something and found his fevered thoughts scribbled down on a few pages of paper. He didn't keep a journal, but when it got too much to handle, he sometimes wrote down the memories and tried to figure out what was real and what was a lie.

Alex nodded. "Okay, but you're missing all the good parts," she smiled.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but she could tell his good mood was somewhat forced. "I know what's going on, thanks. I wasn't asleep," he protested. His voice hitched for a second, and Alex suddenly noticed that his hand was trembling slightly.

"Mm," she said, unconvinced. She stood up and squeezed in between him and the arm of the recliner. "Scoot over."

He groaned. "There's no room!"

"Sure there is," she smirked, hitting the play button and settling herself half on his lap and half on the seat, curling into his chest and letting her presence comfort the fear in his heart.

* * *

Frera snapped back to reality as she heard footsteps pass by her room; she sprang up, waiting to see if they would come in, but whoever it was continued to the end of the hall. Then she remembered what she had been intending to do in the first place-make a list. She sat down at her desk, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and scratched a title onto the paper:

_Summer Goals _

There were 3 things Frera could not stand being called, and one of those was _unorganized_. The other two were _ignorant_ and _emotional_. Summer was summer, but it needed a list. She thought for a moment, then continued writing:

_1) Practice more magic  
2) Practice w/weapons  
3) Keep room in order  
4) Have fun w/family _

She hesitated, then added one more thing:

_5) Research _

Suddenly, she heard footsteps again outside the door, heavy and quick. There was only one person who walked like that.

"_Father!_"

Thor walked in, grinning, and Frera dropped her pen as she was enveloped in a giant hug. Then he let her go and smiled down at her with his friendly blue eyes. In Frera's opinion (and to the continued chagrin of Uncle Stark) he was the best man and the best father in the entire universe. But he was often gone, taking care of any number of things across the nine realms, and Frera was always glad to see him.

"How was the last day of school?"

"The usual," Frera replied, grinning. "Lots of parents staring at me."

"Now, don't get _too_ carried away with yourself," he teased, ruffling her hair. Frera disliked anyone ruffling her hair, but she would stand it for Thor. He was probably the only person who was allowed to do that. He scanned her desk and spied her list. "A _list_? For summer?"

"Yeah, well, to keep things organized, you know..." Frera said.

"Always so scholarly. This is probably the millionth time I'm saying this, but you are _exactly_ like your mother," he said. "What research, pray, could be so very _urgent_?"

"Actually, I'm not quite sure yet what research _exactly_, because I'm not sure where to start. But probably something along the lines of _our Asgardian history_," she replied, putting a particular emphasis on the last three words.

Her father almost groaned. "Not that _again_. I've told you everything. What more is there to know?"

"Well, that's what I intend to find out," Frera said keenly. She wondered if her father had a suspicion of what she was thinking. He probably did.

"C'mon, want to take a ride with me on Mjolnir?"

"I'd love to, really, but I want to get into this."

"If you must," he said, getting up. "I've got something to discuss with Stark, but if you change your mind, let me know."

"I will," Frera called after him as he left.

_But I'm not changing my mind._ There was only one place to go if she wanted to find any information, even though she had been digging here and there for years, and that was S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. She didn't know why she wanted to go there so urgently, but probably it was because she'd been wanting to all year, ever since she had realized that there had to be more to some things. _I know what happened in New York. I know why Aron's here. Dad says I know more about Asgard than most Asgardians! But I've always been interested, and I won't stop now._

* * *

Aron spun around and fired a bullet into the forehead of the hologram aiming its rifle at him, rolling away from a spray of bullets and kicking the dummy flash grenade he found by his foot into a knot of holograms running towards him, shielding his eyes routinely from the grenade as it blew up in a small flash of light and a realistic sound effect. Dropping his arm, he jerked away just before a bullet hit him in the head, firing back at the opponent and dashing for new cover, reloading his gun and firing at a holographic oil drum several meters away and huddling deeper into his cover as the drum exploded, wiping out all of the holograms except three, which he quickly dispatched with his handgun.

"Training sequence complete," the AI system announced, and he stepped out through the sliding doors, sweating profusely. Clint nodded appreciatively at him.

"Nice work in there," Clint complimented.

"Thanks," Aron smiled. "Although you'll be way better than me."

Clint shrugged. "Maybe. There were quite a few things you could've done differently to make it go faster, but you can figure that out on your own."

Aron thanked him and put the guns away. Even though he'd lived for several years on Midgard, he still was Asgardian enough, and had seen enough of Asgard's and the other realms' weapons to dislike handguns to a certain extent. They lacked finesse and elegance, something Aron appreciated in weaponry, despite his pyrotechnic tendencies in other areas. (_**Like exploding Cheerios.**_) Heading to a different training area, he picked up four throwing daggers and stepped into the arena, waiting for the holograms to start up. Glancing to his right, he saw Clint firing arrows at the holograms, taking them down far faster than Aron had. Turning back to his own training area, Aron tapped the start button hovering in front of him, projected from the computer system on the opposite wall.

The area transformed into a forest with the occasional sound of gunfire; a soldier was standing in front of him. Aron crept forward and landed a kick on the back of the man's head, knocking him out. Aron caught him quickly before he could fall too loudly, then heard the click of a gun being cocked and spun around.

A scout was right behind him, finger on the trigger and ready to fire. Aron's eyes widened; there was no way out of this.

Instinct kicked in before thought, and as the bullet exploded from the muzzle of the gun, he gasped and held up a hand.

Ice exploded from his palm, enveloping the bullet and shorting it out. With his right foot, Aron swept the shooter's feet out from under him; then, without hesitation, Aron stabbed all five fingers down at the shooter, releasing five razor sharp daggers of ice that slammed through the shooter's chest and deep into the floor.

Instantly, the hologram and the scenery dissolved in an explosion of sparks as the technology shorted out, leaving Aron wide-eyed and panting in the arena, his hands tinged blue as his Frost Giant pigments covered over his Aesir form.

"STOP!"

The voice rang through the suddenly silent training room, and Aron spun to look at who had spoken, although he knew instantly who it was, trepidation growing in his chest and making small bursts of ice leap from his fingertips.

Director Nick Fury, still intimidating even as he aged, stalked forward, his eye wide and glaring at Aron.

"I thought you said you could control this," he said darkly, his gaze boring into Aron's.

"I... I can, sir," Aron stammered. "I didn't mean- It was an accident, I promise; I was just startled... sir."

"An accident?" Fury repeated, his eyebrows arching. "That would indicate that you do NOT have it under control, Lokison."

Aron's heart hammered in his chest. The only reason he wasn't always under SHIELD's surveillance, trapped in one of their cells for evaluation, was because Thor had convinced Fury that Aron really COULD control his powers and wasn't a danger. Now, though... he'd blown it. He was going to have to go back...

Fury's frown deepened. "Come with me. We're going to have a word in my office... and I want your Uncle Thor here, too."


End file.
